The Dark Flower

He walked along Holywell that afternoon of early June with his short gown drooping down his arms, and no cap on his thick dark hair. A youth of middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different strains, one sturdy, the other wiry and light. His face, too, was a curious blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its expression was rather soft and moody. His eyes-dark grey, with a good deal of light in them, and very black lashes-had a way of looking beyond what they saw, so that he did not seem always to be quite present
but his smile was exceedingly swift, uncovering teeth as white as a negro's, and giving his face a peculiar eagerness.